“Then, George,” she said, “is it too much to ask that $100,000 worth of property be settled upon me at this time?”
“My solicitors have already received my instructions to make it a million.” George Maurice St. John's voice dwelt fondly on the settlement. “It is but a beggarly ante in such a game of table-stakes as this!” This time Angelina McLaurin did not decline his endearments. When he let up, she continued:
“And it's dead sure I go to the Shore each summer?”
“It is a welded cinch,” he replied, as he drew her nearer to him. “You take in the coast from Bar Harbour to the Florida Keys.”
“And servants?”
“A mob shall minister unto thee,” he said.
“Then I have but one more boon, George,” she murmured, “grant that, and I am thine forever.”
“Board the card!” cried George; “I promise before you ask.”
“Say not so,” she said with a sweet sadness; “but muzzle your lips and listen. You must quit golf.”
“What!” shrieked George, with an energy that sent the Angora backward off a shed-roof of dubious repute, from which he was carolling to his low companions; “what!” he repeated. “Woman, think!”